Let’s leave LA for a wee bit, shall we? Quick background for you: I’m what I call a Hibernophile. (Hibernia being Ireland’s ancient name.) But I’m not actually Irish. I’m a wannabe. If you add a bit of Irish butter, pickle, cheddar and a crackling peat fire, the pic below becomes a Ploughman’s Lunch, AKA THE BEST MEAL EVER:
I even tried the Catholic church on for size (sorry, Jews!) until I feared that God or the priest might smite me down for crossing myself backwards. (Pal Richard clued me in — spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. Sadly, I don’t tend to carry these items with me.)
But ah Jaysus how I do go on. There are countless pubs all over Ireland where you can find good craic. Today, let’s skip over the pond for a pint at Johnny Fox’s, the highest pub in Ireland. (The pic above was taken there.)
Fox’s is that rare gem where locals and tourists alike co-exist in relatively peaceful harmony. (It is Ireland, after all. Bar fights have been known to result in drinking.) Traditional music, dancing, decor and a history that dates back to the late 18th century make this classic craic-fest worth the 25 minute cab ride outta Dublin. And you WILL take a cab, because odds are, you’ll have to be carried out.
Oh, I’m getting that itchy clickin’ finger again, looking for airfares to Europe. I don’t know what it is about Ireland that charms me so — maybe the rolling green hills? The saints & scholars? The sausages? The lack of snakes? Nah. It’s the drinking. (And the subsequent dancing, singing, and snogging.)
I leave you with one of my favorite quotes EVER, from Irish writer Brendan Behan: “I’m a drinker, with a writing problem.” HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY!